


Unsigned

by anactoria



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Background Case, Community: spn_summergen, Gen, Letters, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 02:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12049293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: Writing letters to nobody and hiding them in library books is a strange hobby, for sure, but sometimes Sam finds that it helps. Sometimes, when he’s very lucky, it helps somebody else, too.





	Unsigned

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [SummerGen](http://spn_summergen.livejournal.com) 2017, for [troll_la_la](http://troll-la-la.livejournal.com)'s prompt, “Any season, pre-series or post-canon. Sam has a secret hobby he does *not* want Dean to know about.”
> 
> As always, many thanks to the wonderful [frozen_delight](https//archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight) for her beta help. <3

i.

It had been a slow afternoon. No surprise, really: it was a hot, sleepy summer day, and even the kids riding their bikes up and down the high street had gotten tired and disappeared into the shade. Nobody wanted to hang out in a library on a day like this.

Alice didn’t mind the quiet. She hummed to herself as she stacked the returned books onto a trolley and made her way around the shelves, slotting them back into their right places one by one. She always saved the children’s books for last: she’d loved coming in here as a little girl, getting to choose a single book with brightly-colored illustrations every week, and even now she liked to take a moment to look at them. Jeannie was occupied in the office right now, so Alice might even get a chance to sit down on an oversized cushion in the reading corner and glance through one of her favorites. _The Very Hungry Caterpillar_ , maybe, or one of those new, beautifully-illustrated editions of the Greek myths (the really nasty parts edited out for kids, of course). 

There was one of those on her trolley now. A young boy had come in to thumb through them every day over the past couple weeks—but even he wasn’t here today. Maybe he’d left it there yesterday, before he went home.

As she slid it off the trolley to flick through it, though, something slipped out from between the pages and landed gently on the floor at her feet.

A slip of paper, torn out of the back of a notebook and folded twice. Alice stooped to pick it up, ready to toss it into the trash—but the writing on the inner fold caught her eye. She straightened up and unfolded it.

The handwriting was a child’s—neat and looping, like its owner had just learned cursive, and was being extra careful to get every letter right. Gently, Alice unfolded it and sat down to read.

 _My name is Sam Winchester_. The period at the end of the sentence had been drawn in decisively, pressed so hard the pencil left an indent in the paper.

 _Tomorrow I’ll be leaving town and starting a new school AGAIN_. The AGAIN had been underlined—three times, for emphasis. _I know why we can’t stay in the same place for long. Dean explained it all to me. And I can’t make real friends anyway. I can’t tell them why we’re really here. So I guess it doesn’t matter that I can’t stay._

_That’s why I’m writing this. I don’t have a diary. Dean would just read it and then laugh at me anyway, if I did. And I don’t have anybody to write letters to. I guess I’ll throw this in the garbage when I’m done with it, but at least I can pretend I’m writing to somebody._

_Here goes, I guess._

_My name is Sam Winchester, and my family hunts monsters._

_This is how it works. Dad looks in the newspapers until he reads about somebody who died in a weird way. Then he goes to find out how it happened, and if a monster did it, he kills the monster. Sometimes he leaves Dean and me with Uncle Bobby or Pastor Jim. (Dean is my brother. He’s four years older than me and he thinks he’s super grown up.) But sometimes Dad takes us with him._

_This time the monster Dad had to kill was a nymph. It was called an e-p-i-m-e-l-i-a-d and it lived in an apple tree. He says they have to kill somebody every 25 years and bury the body under their tree or their forest, or they’ll go to sleep and won’t wake up. Dad found a leaf on the floor where the man got killed. Then he called Uncle Bobby, and they argued on the phone about what kind of tree it was for ages. I knew it was an apple tree because of the school project I did last year, but Dad wouldn’t listen to me. He never does._

_Dad and Dean went out last night to find the tree and burn it down. They let me go with them, but I had to stay in the car. I couldn’t see much, just shadows, like a puppet show. It looked like a woman with branches for arms. When they got back in the car, Dean and Dad smelled of smoke so bad it made me cough._

_Smoke smells like fall. I’m glad it’s still summer. Dad gets real quiet in the fall, and he drinks more whiskey at night and then he snores so loud I can’t sleep. Sometimes Dean gets real quiet too, like he’s afraid._

_The car just stopped outside. Dad’s home. We’re going to leave soon. I guess I should_

The letter cut off abruptly there, and Alice half-smiled to herself. The kid’s imagination was impressive, even if it was pretty morbid; he’d definitely put those mythology books to good use. 

On the other hand, it was kind of sad. Moving from place to place all the time? Such an unsettled childhood that he’d made up some story about his dad being a monster-hunting hero to escape from it? Alice wondered, briefly, if she ought to call somebody.

But the boy hadn’t come in today—and, come to think of it, he’d been carrying a heavy school rucksack yesterday, stuffed full to bursting. The family had probably left by now, and Alice had no idea where they were going.

For a moment, she frowned over the little note. Then she folded it back into four, and slipped it into her purse.

 

ii.

_I guess this is kind of an exorcism._

_Huh. All that time trying to get away from Dad’s way of doing things, and here I am. But I have to write this down. I need to get it out of my head so I can stop thinking about it. Finally,_ finally _, I’m out of that life. I’ve got friends and school and a place of my own, and_ Jess _, and I want to be able to just… live it. Not be afraid that I’m going to let slip what I’ve really seen and make everybody think I’m crazy. The way Jess looks at me sometimes, I’m sure she’s going to start asking questions. It’s like she knows when I’m thinking about—about stuff from before._

_So, here goes. My name is—well, actually, my name isn’t important. What’s important is, my family hunts monsters._

_Yeah, literally. You don’t have to believe me, whoever you are. I mean, it’s probably better if you don’t, if you tell yourself it’s some kind of a metaphor or just the product of a deranged imagination. So do that, if it helps._

_It started when I was a baby. I don’t really remember any of it. Just that, as long as I’ve known anything, we’ve always been moving. Me and my brother, and sometimes our Dad, though he was as likely to dump us somewhere and take off for a few weeks as he was to take us with him. We never stayed in one place more than a couple months at a time, and I guess I got used to the idea that you don’t put down roots. You don’t get used to places, or make friends, or start letting yourself find comfort in the fact that the buildings are solid and the streets always lead to the same places and the tree on the corner keeps the same crooked shape._

_It’s still hard sometimes. I’m not good at being still or doing nothing: I get fidgety, start pacing, or I have to read something to distract myself. Jess teases me about it sometimes. Other times she looks kind of worried._

_I don’t want to worry her. We have a home now, even if it is a crappy little rented apartment. A place of our own that I know I’ll be coming back to, week after week. If I can just get this out of my head—well, maybe we have a shot at being normal._

“You ready to go?” Jess’s voice made Sam start, and he slid the sheet of paper into the book on top of the stack he’d built up while he worked.

“Uh, sure.” He gave her a smile. “Just give me a minute, I need to put these back.” He waved at the pile of books.

Jess nodded. “I’m gonna head over to the coffee shop. I told Brady we’d meet him there.” She frowned a little, then. “He isn’t looking so good. You think maybe you could talk to him? I know you guys are close, and…” She trailed off, giving a one-shouldered shrug.

It always amazed him that she could care about people so honestly, not hiding it under the gruff words and dumb jokes Sam had gotten used to, between Dad and Dean. 

He couldn’t be honest with her in return; and that was something he was never gonna be okay with. But, at the very least, he wasn’t gonna give her anything extra to worry about.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, gathering the pile of books into his arms. “Be right over.”

Jess regained her smile, leaning down to kiss his cheek before she headed for the door. Sam got to his feet—then frowned down at the books he was holding, realizing he couldn’t remember which one he’d slipped the letter into.

He puzzled over it for a moment. 

But then, it was no big deal, really. The note didn’t have his name on it. Anyone who found it would probably think it was some crazy prank, or a creative writing project somebody had gotten way too enthusiastic about. 

Besides, actually writing that stuff down had kind of helped. It wasn’t buzzing around inside of his head anymore, keeping him from focusing on the here and now. Maybe getting rid of the note was the final piece of the puzzle. The last word in the exorcism, or something.

Outside, the bright California sun beckoned. Sam smiled, shoved his books back onto the shelf, and headed for the door.

 

\----

 

Jenny trailed along the shelves, squinting at the call numbers in the dim light. She wasn’t feeling much in the way of motivation today. Sirens had woken her up in the early hours last night, and the commotion outside had eventually dragged her out of bed to find out what was going on.

Honestly, she kind of wished she hadn’t looked. She’d heard this morning what it was all about: some poor kid had died after the kitchen in her apartment caught fire. Not that Jenny had known her, but the scene had been pretty horrific: firefighters milling around outside and some distraught-looking guy—the boyfriend, she guessed—weeping on the sidewalk, his buddy holding him back from rushing into the building. Jenny could still smell the smoke now.

One thing was for sure: she wasn’t going to be trying any more late-night cooking experiments. Or letting her roommates anywhere near the kitchen after a night out.

She sighed, reached up on her toes to grab the book she’d been looking for, and pulled it down from the shelf. As she did so, something slipped out from just inside the front cover.

Jenny caught it as it fluttered down. It was a sheet of writing paper, folded neatly in two, both sides covered in sharp, blocky handwriting. She opened it up, frowning down at the page. Her eyes landed on a paragraph somewhere in the middle, picking out the words, _My family hunts monsters._

She rolled her eyes and screwed up the sheet of paper. Honestly, Jenny was all for people following their dreams, writing whatever trashy paranormal stuff made them happy, but that didn’t mean she had to read it. And right now, the real world was crappy enough. She didn’t need the imaginary stories of somebody who’d watched too much _Buffy_ to remind her of that.

Jenny tossed the screwed-up paper into the trash, and left with her book.

 

iii.

Sam hadn’t written anything since Jess died.

Since before that, really. Honestly, he hadn’t felt the need in a long while. Once he’d gotten settled into his routine—school, a normal apartment, a normal relationship—venting his frustrations on paper hadn’t seemed so important anymore. After all, since he’d gotten away from Dad and hunting, he’d had normal frustrations. Midterms. Flaky professors. Trying to keep up his running in the California heat. Nothing he couldn’t vent about to Jess, or to one of his friends.

And now all of that was gone. Up in smoke, like the normal world had only ever been a pretty dream, and now Sam was back in reality again.

Dean had been hovering around him like he was an invalid, alternating between excruciating silences and the kind of forced cheerfulness Dean always used like a shield when things were going to crap. Sam had kind of forgotten how much it got to him. 

He could kind of understand it, when it was family stuff. When Dad had taken off and not told them how long he was gonna be away; or when he and Dad had gotten into one of those fights where neither of them could seem to leave it alone, and Dean stood in the middle trying to act like everything was fine. But this—Jess— This was _Sam’s_ sorrow, and he just wanted to—

Well, he didn’t really know. Right now, he’d hidden himself away in the town library, because it was cool and quiet and nobody was going to expect him to talk about anything. He sat at one of the desks in back, with a pen and a sheet of paper he’d scrounged off of the librarian (too busy checking his emails at the front desk to care what he was doing). He’d thought that maybe he’d do what he used to, write it all down and leave it somewhere he’d never have to see it again, like a letter to an imaginary penpal—but now he didn’t even know where to start.

How _could_ you put it into words? He couldn’t even say it out loud. It wasn’t like writing would be any more adequate.

Sam sighed and dropped the pen. It rolled across the desk and hit the floor with a thin sound.

 

\----

 

Luis stuck his head around the back row of stacks, just to check there was nobody left there before he closed up. Not that there was likely to be: the only person he’d seen head back there this afternoon was the cute guy who’d asked him for some paper, and said cute guy had left half an hour ago, barely acknowledging Luis’s presence as he headed out.

He’d looked a little glazed, gaze fixed on the middle distance, dark shadows under his eyes. Luis guessed that whatever he’d been looking for in here, he hadn’t found it.

Obviously not, Luis realized, as he took in the mess on the desk. The paper he’d given the guy had been shredded, the pieces left sprinkled over the table like so much confetti. The pen was on the floor.

Luis sighed and scooped the mess into his hands. Some people.

 

iv.

Dean wasn’t coming back.

The hangover made Sam’s head pound, and honestly, he still felt like he was half-asleep—or maybe just stuck in a nightmare—but he forced the words through his brain. Sometime the previous night, between Ruby showing up and puking his guts out in the motel bathroom, it had finally lodged itself inside his skull, and now it felt true.

He’d thought about calling Bobby, at one point. Heading to Sioux Falls and just showing up on the doorstep. He’d stopped himself before he actually picked up the phone, maybe because having the two of them in one place would just have made Dean’s absence more obvious. On his own, Sam could pretend to himself for a couple minutes that he’d just taken off by himself, needed a little space from how Dean still treated him like a dumb kid half the time. He could pretend that when he’d cleared his head, he’d hotwire a car and turn around and drive back to Bobby’s, and Dean would be waiting to chew him out and sulk for a couple hours and finally share a beer and make up.

A knock at the door startled Sam out of his reverie. He winced, but before he could ask who was there, it opened, admitting a line of bright sunlight that made him press the heels of his hands over his eyes, and Ruby.

She paused in the doorway, one hand on her hip. “You look like crap.”

He scowled up at her. “Shut the door.”

Ruby did as she was asked, but stayed standing. “So, are you gonna lie in bed all day feeling sorry for yourself, or…?”

Vaguely, fragments of last night filtered back to him. They’d talked about finding Lilith, taking her out. By the time he’d crawled into bed, it had seemed like a good idea.

Sam scrubbed a hand down his face. “Just gimme a minute,” he said. “Throw me that duffel? No, on the chair. I need some Tylenol, or… _something_.”

All matter-of-fact, Ruby set the duffel back down on the chair and reached down to pull a knife out of her boot. Sam blinked, watching her as she held out her hand and drew the knife across her palm, not even blinking as blood beaded along the cut.

She sat on the mattress beside him, still all business. “Here,” she said, “or something,” and held out her hand.

 

\----

 

Beth glanced around the library before she pulled the book off of the shelf. Whoever was in charge of buying the books must be pretty open-minded, she guessed, because there was a small shelf stuffed with New-Agey witchcraft stuff, tucked in after the pop psychology and before the ‘How to Write Your Essay’ guides for students. Still she didn’t want one of Mom’s friends spotting her and jumping to the conclusion that she was planning her very own remake of _The Craft_ , or about to start wearing black lipstick and listening to My Chemical Romance. That was more hassle than she needed right now; keeping Jamie a secret from Mom and Dad was enough trouble as it was.

Carefully, she pulled out the book and took herself off to a quiet corner of the library, setting her bag on the desk in front of her so that nobody would see what she was reading.

Most of the books on the shelf had been pretty useless. Self-help type stuff, how to connect with your inner goddess or align your chakras or whatever. Her Google-fu had been about as helpful. But this—old and dusty, and bound in faded brown leather—yeah, this looked like it might have some real information in it. Might help her make sense of what she’d seen.

Last night hadn’t been supposed to end that way. Jamie had talked her into sneaking out, going with him to the old Taylor place that had been abandoned since she was a kid and that some people thought was haunted.

Beth knew why he’d invited her there. She wasn’t dumb. She’d at least half-convinced herself she was gonna do it, too. Mom had always said boys were only after one thing, and she didn’t think Jamie was like that, but that Mom-voice in the back of her head kept whispering. After all, it wasn’t like she had any experience in that area. Maybe she just didn’t know how to tell when a guy wanted it.

And if Jamie decided she wasn’t worth hanging around for, after she’d ditched all of her friends for him enough times they stopped calling her, and gotten into the habit of lying to Mom and Dad because she’d be grounded until the end of the world if they found out she was sneaking around with a college guy—

Well, then she wouldn’t have anybody.

She was getting off topic again. Trying to avoid thinking about what they’d seen last night, she guessed.

They’d snuck in through the back gate. Jamie had thought it was real funny to go quiet and stand in the shadows, then jump out and yell ‘Boo!’ Beth had yelled at him, but the relief had made her giddy, and she hadn’t been able to keep it up for long, laughing a little frantically as they made their way inside.

The back door had been hanging open, the boards that used to hold it shut discarded on the ground, and Beth had stopped and frowned at them. “Jamie?” she’d said. “You think somebody’s in here?”

He’d stopped, given the door a cursory once-over with the beam of his flashlight, and then shaken his head. “Nah. Probably just rotted off. This place is, like, really old.”

“Okay.” Beth had sounded uncertain even to her own ears, but Jamie was already inside the house, so she’d followed.

She’d gotten inside just in time to hear him scream.

And what was inside—huh. She swallowed down bile just remembering it, pressing her hand over her mouth. The chair in the middle of the floor, with ropes pooled around the bottom of it, like they’d been used to tie somebody there. The weird drawings on the floor, like something off of a goth kid’s hoodie. And all the _blood_. Beth wondered if it could all have come from one person.

She hadn’t thought to snap a picture on her phone. She wasn’t honestly sure what she’d do with it if she had.

Jamie had cut and run before Beth even had time to wrap her mind around the whole thing, barging past her on his way out so that she stumbled into the grimy wall and got dirt all down the sleeve of her shirt. Vaguely, it had crossed her mind that she was going to have a hard time explaining that to Mom. 

Then her self-preservation instinct had kicked in, and she’d followed Jamie out the door. She’d been feeling too shaken to yell at him for leaving her behind, and she was still pretty freaked out now. Maybe the book would help. Maybe it would explain things, at least.

Beth let it fall open where it wanted—and blinked in surprise when she found a folded sheet of paper tucked between the pages. It was modern, not yellowed with age like the rest of the book, and somebody had written on it. Frowning, she unfolded it.

The first line had been scratched out. Beth squinted at it; it looked something like, _Ruby says_.

Underneath, the writing started up again. 

_We don’t know each other, and we probably never will. It’s probably better if you don’t read this, if you just toss it in the trash and never think about it again._

The phrasing was familiar. That was how Jamie talked to her, half the time. It’s probably better if you don’t talk to your sister about us. It’s probably better if we hang out just the two of us, instead of going to the movies with your friends. It’s probably better if you tell your mom you’re studying at Kyra’s, if we don’t change our Facebook statuses, if you call me late at night after everybody’s gone to bed. Beth had gotten so used to going along with it that she almost did what the writer had suggested, crumpling the paper up in her hand ready to toss it out.

Then she remembered last night. Jamie had dragged her out to—well, to a freaking murder house was what it looked like. What did he know about what was best?

Scowling, she laid the sheet of paper out on the desk, smoothing it down with her hands as best she could.

 _Anyway_ , the writer went on. _It all started after my brother died. Our parents are dead, and we’ve spent almost our whole lives together, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do without him. I just… drifted for a while, I guess. I lost touch with my friends, started drinking. When you put it like that, I guess it’s a pretty standard sob story._

_This one friend—or something like that, anyway—came and found me. I’m glad she did. I mean, I’m grateful. I was in a hole, and she pulled me out of it. Gave me something to focus on. I can’t get my brother back, but I can avenge him. She says she’s going to help me do it._

_Most of the time, it feels good. Knowing that I’m doing something. Sometimes I think, if my brother could see me now, he’d freak—but I guess that’s pretty stupid. He can’t see me. He’s gone. So it’s probably best if I don’t think about it._

_Last night, I thought about calling_ — The name had been scratched out, and Beth squinted at the page. Billy, maybe? – _an old friend. I don’t know why. Maybe I was hoping he’d understand, tell me I’m doing the right thing, but I kind of doubt it. I’d been drinking, though, and I almost did it anyway._

_She got here in time to stop me. When she asked me what the hell I was thinking, I didn’t really have an answer. I guess it’s for the best that she stopped me._

_I still wish I could talk to somebody, though. Somebody who gets that I have doubts. They’re hard to admit to, when your whole life is people who seem so certain about everything. That’s probably why I’m writing this._

_So, whoever you are, if you didn’t take my advice and toss this out—sorry, I guess. Hope you’re having a better time than me._

Beth folded the letter and slipped it into her purse, the book she’d come here for forgotten. Did it really matter if whatever psycho had been up at the Taylor place thought they were doing witchcraft or summoning Satan? It wasn’t Beth’s job to figure that out anyway.

She realized she’d come to a decision. 

She had to call the police; let them know what she’d seen up there. Even if it did mean Mom and Dad finding out about Jamie.

Speaking of… she was going to call him first. Tell him that she was done with all the sneaking around, with feeling like they were trapped in a cell together while the rest of the world got on with its life outside. Either they stopped the secrecy, or they were through.

Which probably meant they were through. Strangely, Beth didn’t feel as disappointed as she’d expected.

 

v.

Sam stared at the blank page, and the blank page stared back at him.

It had been a long time. A _long_ time. Without his soul—well, he still didn’t remember a whole lot of it, and he was trying not to. Dean had said it could screw up his head so badly he’d lose it, and honestly, looking back felt a little like poking at a wound before it had properly healed. Sam was trying to stay in the here and now.

Only it all kept swirling around inside of his head. What he’d done in Bristol had been awful, but Sam was afraid that maybe it hadn’t been out of the ordinary. Not for— _him_.

So maybe he needed to write it down. Get it out of his system, so he could stop picking the scab. 

_I’ve done some things_ , he wrote. _I don’t remember them all—or even most of them—but I do know they were pretty bad._

 

\----

 

 _Sometimes I tell myself I wouldn’t have done them if I’d_ been _myself. If I’d had all my faculties. I guess you could call it that. Sometimes, though, it scares me that I could have done that stuff at all. What_ is _the real me, anyway? If taking away one part was enough to make me into… him—well, how real is the rest of me?_

 _There’s this tiny little voice in the back of my brain that won’t stop saying that. It sounds a little like…_

There was a blank space there, not even a name written down and crossed out again. The writer had picked up again on the next line.

_It reminds me of somebody I don’t want to be reminded of. Somebody who tried convincing me I was just like him, once._

Well, Joe had been there. Fake friends who thought you were the man, at least as long as you were getting wasted alongside them, but couldn’t pull their heads out of their asses long enough to say ‘hi’ once you’d given up getting wasted.

He’d relied on them—and look where he’d ended up. No money, no girlfriend, no family—just a weekly NA meeting, a one-room apartment with a leaky faucet, and a part-time job in a secondhand bookstore. 

The bookstore was the one good part of the whole situation. Checking out the books, thinking about who’d read them before, and how they’d go on to make somebody else happy—that was pretty awesome. Plus, getting first pick of the new stock was a perk. 

Joe read a lot, these days. Somebody had once told him a good book was like a friend—and he didn’t exactly have any of those these days. He’d burned a whole lot of bridges, and even the idea of getting in touch with Lara elicited a nervous, nauseous twinge in his stomach. She’d tried to help him at first, like any sister would have, but eventually she’d seemed to realize he was a hopeless case. They hadn’t spoken in two years; he couldn’t even begin to guess what she’d say if he got in touch now.

 _I’m trying not to listen to that voice_ , the letter went on. _It’s better when my brother’s around. He’s acting like he just got me back, like he’s happy to see me, even though sometimes when he thinks I’m not looking he lets the act drop and then he just seems worried as hell. He touches his neck sometimes, and he looks at his fingers when he pulls them away like he’s expecting blood._

 _I think it might be because of something I did to him. I don’t really want to ask, not that he’d tell me if I did. He was still waiting for me, even after whatever_ he _did. That counts for something._

_I know what my brother would say, if I brought it up—after “Shut the hell up and drink your beer,” that is. “We’re family.” And then he’d shrug and look at me like nothing else needed to be said._

It sounded so wonderfully simple, put like that. Joe snorted. This guy was either woefully naïve, or his brother was way too forgiving.

If they were even real, that was. It read more like a fragment of a novel, way too dramatic for real life.

Joe folded up the letter and slid it back into the book. Whoever bought it would at least get an interesting bonus read.

The idea stuck with him, though. A couple times, he found himself with his fingers hovering over Lara’s number on his phone, rehearsing what he’d say if she actually picked up. 

Joe still couldn’t pluck up the courage to actually call her. He thought about it a lot, though.

 

\----

 

A couple weeks later, he was working the counter at the bookstore, and a customer dumped a book on the counter in front of him. It was some moth-eaten book of Norse legends, nothing Joe knew anything about, but it was… familiar.

For a moment he couldn’t figure out why. Then it came back to him. It was the book with the note inside it. Discreetly, he checked that it was still tucked within the pages; wondered if the goth chick buying the book would throw it out, or pause her reading to sit down and absorb the anonymous writer’s story.

Huh.

Reading was different than talking on the phone. Less immediate. It gave you time to digest things, calm down when they got to you. Take your time deciding how you were gonna reply.

When it was time to go for his break, Joe grabbed a spare notebook from the cupboard out back. He poured his coffee, got comfortable at the table in the break room, and steeled himself.

 _Dear Lara_ , he wrote.

 

\----

 

vi.

Dean was losing it.

It got more obvious every day. Sam had tried his damnedest to believe in his brother, to be strong about the whole thing, but it was getting harder. There was Dean, and there was the Mark of Cain; and there was a little less of Dean every day. Sam couldn’t just do nothing and trust that Dean would be able to fight it. Not anymore.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes as another car whizzed past on the highway. He was maybe an hour out from the brewery where he’d left Rowena with the Book of the Damned, pulled over at the side of the road in the hope he could clear his head before he got back to the bunker. 

So far, it wasn’t working.

Maybe telling somebody would’ve helped. But he didn’t want to put all of this on Cas. Sam wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep holding it together if Cas confessed he had doubts; so he wasn’t about to inflict his own worries on Cas in turn. Rowena would laugh in his face if he said anything halfway earnest to her. And… well, he couldn’t exactly share this stuff with Dean.

Sam sighed and stretched his arms above his head, working the kinks out of his shoulders as best he could. Then the notebook sitting on the backseat caught his eye.

It wasn’t his; must’ve belonged to whoever owned this old junker before Sam had ‘borrowed’ it. (Hopefully the insurance money would let them pick up something a little less imminently falling-apart.) He’d reached for it before he really had time to think about what he was doing.

There was a pen stuffed down the spine. Almost like somebody had left it there on purpose, for him.

Sam shut the thought down with a soft, involuntary snort. If he’d learned anything in his whole life, it was that the universe having plans for you wasn’t usually a good thing.

Still, he flipped the notebook open. The blank page sat there, clean and inviting, and it was a relief to pull out the pen and start writing.

 

\----

 

_I can’t let him go._

_That’s what it all comes down to. All the maybe-consequences, all the trusting people I shouldn’t—it all seems so small, next to my brother being… gone. I can’t do this without him, so all the things I should do just aren’t options._

Will crumpled the paper in his hand. It was like this guy, whoever he was, had plucked his words right out of Will’s head. Okay, so he was talking about his brother, not his girlfriend or boyfriend, and that was kind of weird—but otherwise, it rang true.

Rose was gone, and Will couldn’t live without her. He’d do whatever he had to, to get her back. Screw what either of their families thought. Screw the new guy she was seeing. The two of them belonged together, and somehow he’d make her see it.

Her birthday party was tonight. Time to get ready.

 

\----

 

Will arrived early, just after most of the guests had been welcomed inside. He’d have plenty of time to get everything set up. From his spot behind the bushes, he saw the door open to a couple of stragglers, a sliver of Rose’s figure visible through the gap. She was wearing her yellow dress, red hair loose over her shoulders, and she laughed out loud at something one of the new arrivals said as she ushered them in.

From where he was hiding, Will couldn’t hear her laugh—but he remembered the sound of it, bright and surprised and musical. Making Rose laugh had always felt like winning a prize.

The door closed, the guests disappearing into the house, and Will got to work. It took him a while, the music and laughter inside the house tugging at him sadly, but he let the anonymous letter-writer’s words keep ringing through his head. _I can’t do this without him. That’s what it comes down to_. He couldn’t do this without her. That was what it came down to.

By the time the party guests started to spill out into the garden, he was ready. A couple people gave the arrangement of candles on the lawn weird looks, but didn’t say anything; and a moment later, Rose emerged, still flushed and laughing, hand-in-hand with her new boyfriend. 

_Temporary_ boyfriend, Will tried to reassure himself.

He took a deep breath and switched on the boombox. (Will had had to beg to borrow it from his uncle; Rose had loved that old movie where the guy stands outside his girlfriend’s window with one, and Will’s phone plus a couple of speakers just didn’t seem the same.) Rose blinked as the music kicked in—then went still, her eyes widening as they took in the candles.

 _I LOVE YOU ROSE_. He’d spelled it out in four-foot letters across the lawn, with dozens of white tealights from the dollar store. Their flames flickered in the night breeze, casting a soft light up the garden. The play of shadows at Rose’s feet caught his eye; for a moment, it looked like she was standing on shifting sands.

Then he looked up and saw her face. She was staring at him, open-mouthed. Still clutching that other guy’s hand.

No: not staring. Glaring. She blinked a couple times, then dropped temporary-dude’s hand and stalked toward him.

Will had imagined this a dozen times. Rose leaving that asshat and coming toward him, back to him, as though she couldn’t get there fast enough. Only, in his imagination, she’d looked a whole lot happier to see him.

“What are you doing here?” Rose was scowling now, her hands clenched into fists at her side. When she finally came to a stop in front of him, Will saw that she was trembling a little. His heart skipped a beat, hope rising in his chest. Maybe the anger was just a front; an act she was using to contain herself. She _must_ still have feelings for him, somewhere deep down.

He gestured around him. “I’m here to show you,” he said. “How much you mean to me. How much I want—I _need_ you back, Rosie. We belong together—you know that. I can’t go on without you.” He reached out, hopefully, with one hand.

If anything, Rose’s scowl intensified. “You still don’t get it,” she said. “Will, I didn’t leave you because I didn’t… get how much you care, or whatever. I left because you were suffocating me. Stuff like this—” She turned on the spot, hands spread. “It’s too much. You were taking over my life with it. And I didn’t need—I didn’t want that.” She sighed. “You need to give it up.”

The words felt like grains of sand slipping through his fingers, and desperation clawed at him. 

Maybe she was right. Maybe he should just give it up, just leave. But, _All the things I should do just aren’t options._

And maybe it was just a test. Maybe she was waiting to see how big he’d go.

“Wait,” he told her, pleading. The possibility of a future without her opened up before him, a big gaping hollow, and he couldn’t bear to look at it. “There’s more.” He stepped over to the side of the lawn, where he’d set up the fireworks, and struck a match.

“Will.” Rose sounded doubtful. “What are you—?”

“Watch,” he said, and lit the fuse. 

He’d imagined this as the grand finale, the last scene of the movie, flowers of light blossoming over them as they kissed on the lawn. Maybe there would still be some magic here—maybe she’d finally see—

It didn’t look exactly like he’d expected. One firework, then another, rose into the air with a whine, trailing behind it a thin tail of red-and-white sparks. The third one was a couple seconds behind—and instead of shooting into the sky, it caught in the branches of the old elm tree that overhung the yard.

It twisted there for a moment, sparks flying. Then there was smoke and flame among the branches.

Rose gave him one more horrified glance before she ran for the house. The next thing Will heard was the scream of sirens.

 

\----

 

The cop who discharged him told Will he was damn lucky he wasn’t getting charged with anything. Dad didn’t speak to him the whole way home, and when they arrived at the house, he said, “Go to your room” so sternly Will didn’t dare argue.

The old notebook he’d found the letter in was still sitting on his desk, and a sudden surge of anger seized him. Stupid letter-writer.

Stupid Will, for listening to the words of a random stranger. He opened up the notebook, the page falling open at the one where he’d found the letter.

Then he blinked in surprise, realizing there was more, on the back of the page. He hadn’t noticed that part the first time around, too caught up in thinking about Rose. Stomach clenching nervously, he began to read.

 _I know he’ll be mad_ , the letter carried on. _After everything that happened last year… well, I know I would be. He couldn’t bear to let me go, so he did what he thought he had to, damn what I wanted and damn the consequences. And now I’m about to go do… basically the same thing._

_It’s different. But it isn’t. But it is. Sometimes I don’t even know where to start thinking about it._

_There just aren’t any good choices here. I get it now, what my brother did to me. I really wish I didn’t._

_I just hope he can forgive me._

Will snorted. There was no chance of Rose forgiving him now. One thing was for sure: whatever dumb thing the letter writer had been about to do, there was no way it could have ended worse than this.

 

i. (redux)

Alice did a double-take as she climbed out of the car. The side-road next to the library was blocked off, two police cruisers parked at the entrance. Shaun and Mei were hovering on the sidewalk, looking uncertainly at the nearest cop, who was talking into his radio.

They looked around in relief when she approached. Alice had gotten the manager’s job after Jeannie retired, and she found that she actually kind of liked taking charge.

The cop put down his radio, and Alice stepped in. “What’s going on here?” 

“This is a crime scene,” he told her. “We can’t have anybody getting in the way here. You the manager?” He gestured toward the library.

She nodded. “Are we okay to open up?”

The cop nodded, then leaned in toward her. “Just… don’t spread any gossip. You know how people are. We don’t want a panic on our hands.”

Alice frowned to herself. That wasn’t exactly the most reassuring. Her eyes flicked to the scene in the alley, the police tape and bustle visible over the cop’s shoulder, but it didn’t help her figure out what was going on.

Still, no point worrying about it. Not when there was nothing she could do. She plastered on a smile, and turned to face her employees. “Come on,” she said. “Nothing to see here. Let’s get inside.”

The cops hung around all morning, but the snatches of conversation Alice heard when she poked her head outside didn’t give much away. Not much that made any sense, anyway. Once, a baffled officer in uniform, deep in conversation with his co-worker, said something that sounded like, “Leaves shoved down his _throat_ ,” his face a picture of confusion, but then he caught Alice looking and shut up pretty fast.

It was completely nonsensical. A dead guy strangled with leaves? That was the plot of an _X-Files_ episode, not the kind of thing that happened just next door.

Only, it sounded familiar, somehow. 

No way it could be. Surely. 

Alice kept telling herself that. Hell, maybe it _was_ the plot of an _X-Files_ episode.

But eventually, it came back to her. That kid’s story she’d found tucked into one of the children’s books, not long after she first started working here. It couldn’t have been much after… huh, sometime in the early Nineties, she guessed.

It had been about a kid whose family hunted monsters. And they’d killed—what, a dryad? Something to do with trees, anyway. She vaguely remembered it had mentioned an apple tree.

She’d kept it, for a while. Probably still had it somewhere, in a drawer or a folder. She’d read it over a few times; wondered again what had gotten a kid to come up with something like that, and whether she should have called CPS back when she first found it.

There was an orchard out on the edge of town. It had been there at least since Alice started work at the library, and maybe since she was a kid. She’d wondered at the time if that was where the kid got the apple tree thing from—even driven out of her way after work, just in case there was a burned tree somewhere in among the green.

Of course, she didn’t see anything. But then, it had just been a story.

Now, she couldn’t help wondering. What if there was something strange going on out there?

Alice shook herself. It was a silly idea. Letting a weird crime and a child’s story turn her head. But it wouldn’t leave her alone, and after she’d spent the whole of her coffee break scrolling through pictures of apple trees on her phone, she gave up and let herself into the records room. Mei could manage the counter just fine while she buried herself in anything she could find about the orchard.

Which was… not a whole lot. It had been sold around ten years ago, and the new owners didn’t live in town, preferring to hire people to maintain it and harvest the apples. There wasn’t anything noteworthy before that. Business had always been pretty good, bumper crops even when the weather was bad. The original owner had died of a heart attack, and then his wife had sold up and moved abroad. No drama.

Alice frowned, tapping her pencil on the table.

What about weird deaths? If somebody really had died around the time she’d found that story, then… well, that would mean something. Alice wasn’t sure _what_ , or what she’d do about it if she found anything, but it was a start.

It was lunchtime by the time she got done digging into the newspaper archives. No murders, certainly nothing as weird as a guy with a branch down his throat—but people had gone missing. The last one, twenty-five years ago today. Then twenty-five years before that. And before that—that must have been around the time the orchard was planted, Alice guessed; before the owners she’d known had bought it.

The year the kid had been here, nobody had gone missing. As she scanned the obituaries, though, Alice’s gaze caught on the phrase, _inquest ruled death by natural causes_. If there had been an inquest at all, then there must have been _something_ suspicious, right?

“Could have been interrupted.” 

The voice startled Alice out of her reverie, and she whipped round to face the door of the records room. Two guys in suits walked in as she blinked at them, deep enough in conversation that they didn’t seem to notice her for a moment.

They were both pretty tall. Both good-looking, in an ‘if I was twenty years younger’ kind of a way. The taller of the two had floppy hair, broad shoulders, dimples that showed at the corners of his mouth, and Alice would be willing to bet they’d be irresistible when he smiled. The other looked like he might’ve been a male model in his younger days, all freckles and big green eyes. But that wasn’t what Alice noticed first. 

There was _something_ about the taller one, but Alice couldn’t put her finger on it. She would have said that she recognized him, only she was pretty sure she would’ve remembered that. These weren’t the kinds of faces you forgot.

Freckles shook his head, still frowning. “But the timing ain’t—huh.” He broke off as he noticed Alice watching them, elbowing Dimples in the ribs, and dug a badge out of his pocket. “Agent Jason Newsted, FBI. This is my partner, Agent Hetfield.” He nodded at Dimples. 

“Your colleague sent us back here,” Dimples put in. “We need to look at—uh, that, actually.” He blinked in surprise, motioning at the folder of newspaper cuttings Alice had been reading. The dates were marked clearly on the top, and Dimples looked at them, then exchanged a glance and a nod with his partner.

It was Alice’s turn to be surprised. The FBI was here? That seemed unlikely enough. The FBI actually following the weird trail of logic Alice had gotten from a child’s story, more than 27 years ago? 

No. That was crazy. They probably had other evidence she didn’t know about, good reasons for wanting to look into the past that didn’t revolve around monsters.

She nodded and stepped aside, telling the two agents, “I’ll be out front if you need anything else.” 

But she left the records about the orchard open on the table beside the newspaper cuttings. Just in case.

 

\----

 

Honestly, Alice intended to leave the whole thing alone. She left the feds to their own devices in the records room, and she went home, poured herself a glass of wine, watched some gentle comedy on Netflix, and tried to forget about it. It worked, for a couple hours.

But it was hard to sleep that night—and when she finally dozed off, her dreams were fragmented and creepy as hell. Faint, wispy figures with pale green skin swam before her eyes, their thin arms reaching out like they meant to strangle her. She heard the rustling of leaves.

She sat up gasping, her heart thudding in her chest.

It slowed, gradually, but getting back to sleep seemed unlikely. Alice climbed out of bed, felt around in the dark for her slippers, and headed downstairs for a glass of water.

From her kitchen window, you could see the whole way across town. Right to the edge of the orchard. Alice stood there and sipped her water and watched for a moment, the trees moving gently in the night breeze. 

But that couldn’t be right. It was a hot, stuffy kind of a night, and she’d opened the kitchen window to let some air in when she came down. It hadn’t helped, because there _was_ no breeze.

 

\----

 

It would have been smarter to stay away. It was crazy to even think this whole thing could be anything. But Alice felt herself drawn as if by an invisible thread. She pulled on her clothes and boots, moving like she was in a trance, and before she knew it she was in her car, driving out toward the edge of town.

She kept it slow, not sure there would actually be anything to see. The unfamiliar car parked at the orchard gate pulled her up short. 

A hulking old black Chevy, gleaming in the moonlight. Alice hadn’t seen it around town before—and anyway, what would anybody be doing up around here in the middle of the night?

Same as her, she guessed.

She parked up beside the Chevy and climbed out of her car, grateful for the soft grass beneath her feet and how it kept her footsteps quiet. There was still no breeze, and for a moment she stood frozen beside her car. 

Up ahead, in the trees, there was movement. Alice held her breath, stifled a small sound of fear.

And then she saw them.

Faint, wispy figures in the gloom—pale and greenish under the moonlight, with long slender arms reaching up gracefully through the branches of the trees. They looked as though they were dancing. As though they meant to caress the stars.

Alice stood on the spot, staring. For a moment, she though—prayed—that they were unaware of her presence.

Then—slowly, slowly—they turned toward her.

Her breath caught in her throat. She told herself to back away, but her feet refused to move.

Then there were footsteps, and voices, rushing up behind her. The sound broke her out of her trance, and when she turned around, she found the two Feds from earlier heading toward her, now dressed in jeans and jackets instead of their cheap suits.

“Yeah,” she heard Dimples say. “There’s—wow. There are a lot of them.”

Freckles groaned. “Shoulda known it was too easy last time. It’s a milk run, I said. Just gotta burn down a tree. But no, the one me and Dad took care of was just a seedling, and there’s a whole orchard of ‘em waiting up the road. Awesome.”

“Huh.” Dimples looked thoughtful. “Well, at least the timing makes sense now. You know, if the first one was just growing in somebody’s garden.”

“Yeah. But we still gotta—hey. What are _you_ doing here?” 

Freckles came to a halt as his eyes finally landed on Alice, eyeing her with open suspicion. Instinctually, she looked over to Dimples like he might be about to step in and defend her—but he didn’t look any friendlier. He just cocked his head, waiting for an answer.

“The trees,” she got out, at last. “I saw the trees moving. And there’s no wind.” She glanced over her shoulder at the pale figures, still moving so, so very slowly in the dark.

Freckles snorted. “Well, you’re right about that being freaky. Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing out here. Most people see something like that, they run like hell in the opposite direction.” 

“I—” Alice broke off, not sure how to answer the question. _I read a kid’s story years ago, and now I kind of think this town might be haunted by murderous tree nymphs_. That probably wouldn’t go down too well with the Feds.

She was saved by the sound of a ringtone. 

Freckles fumbled in his pocket. “If that’s the damn useless Sheriff—” he started to say. Then he looked at his screen and went quiet, his eyes very wide, his scowl fading into confusion.

“Dean?” Dimples was looking at him in puzzlement. “What is it?”

“It’s… it says… it’s _Cas_.” Freckles held up the cellphone so his partner could see it, shaking his head in disbelief.

Dimples stared. “Wait, you mean he’s… he’s okay?”

A helpless shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Answer it,” Dimples said, and his companion nodded dumbly and turned away, lifting the cell up to his ear. 

Alice caught the words, “If you’re not him, then I’m gonna rip your head off,” which weren’t exactly reassuring. 

Dimples touched her shoulder, making her start a little. His expression had softened a little. “Look,” he said. “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and trust you.”

Alice eyed him cautiously. “Okay.”

“But if you really are just a concerned citizen, then this is all gonna seem pretty weird to you. So I need you to trust me, too. Can you do that?”

She swallowed. Trusting these guys sounded like the worst idea she’d heard all day, which was saying something. But they were big, and possibly crazy, and she wouldn’t really have been surprised if they were armed, so she nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Okay.” Dimples popped open the trunk of the Chevy, casting a brief, worried glance at his companion as he did so. 

Alice didn’t follow his gaze for long, distracted by what was inside the trunk. Odd, occult-style designs painted on the inside of the lid. Guns, like she’d kind of expected. Cans of kerosene. And other weird maybe-weapons, too, pointy sticks and something spiky and medieval looking. She started to back away, and Dimples turned to look at her, catching the movement.

“We’re not gonna hurt you,” he said, in what she guessed was his best reassuring tone. “We’re not here to hurt anybody.”

She gave a wary nod.

Dimples looked relieved, and turned back to the trunk. “So,” he said, “here’s what we need to do.”

 

\----

 

The plan was pretty simple, apparently. The creatures couldn’t leave the safety of the trees before midnight, which gave them maybe half an hour. They needed to set fire to a couple of specific trees, and the creatures that lived in them should go up in flames at the same time. There wasn’t exactly much logic to it—but then, there wasn’t exactly much logic to a creepy orchard full of tree-people in the first place.

“Here.” With an apologetic smile, Dimples handed her a can of kerosene, then felt in his jacket pocket as though he was looking for something. He frowned when he came up empty, and waved at his companion—still earnestly engrossed in his phone conversation. “Dean! Lighter?”

“Hold up,” Freckles—Dean—said into his cell. “Sam’s talking to me.”

Dimples mimed flicking a lighter, and Dean reached into his pocket and tossed over a Bic. Dimples plucked it out of midair with ease, like this was something they did all the time.

No: not Dimples. Sam. His name was Sam. Alice turned it over in her mind as they walked toward the orchard gates, trying and then failing to dismiss it.

“So,” she said, carefully. “These things. They’re, what, tree nymphs, or something?”

Sam nodded. “Well,” he said, “technically they’re epimeliads, but they’re just a variety of tree nymph. Not all of them like to play murder, but these guys are pretty dangerous.” _Epimeliads_. He said the word like he was spelling it out inside his head, like a kid showing off the new big word he’d learned at school.

And then it came back to her.

“Sam,” Alice said, almost involuntarily, as they walked toward the orchard gate. 

He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at her. “Yeah?”

“Sam Winchester.”

“What did you say?” His voice was soft, half danger, half uncertainty.

Alice swallowed hard. “Sam Winchester. That’s you, isn’t it?”

“How do you know that?” His hand had gone to his belt, like he was reaching for a gun, and Alice held up her free hand. 

“I’m not—stalking you, or anything,” she said. “I work in the library. You probably don’t remember me, but you remember the place, right? You used to come in when you were a kid, and you lived here for a couple weeks.”

Sam nodded, still blinking at her in puzzlement. 

“I found your note,” she went on. “Well, at the time I thought it was a story. A school project or something. You left it inside a library book in the kids’ section—what, around twenty years ago? Maybe a little more.”

He still looked uncertain, but Alice could see him remembering. He had to know she was telling the truth.

“It was a book of Greek myths,” she said. “Beautiful illustrations. It was one of my favorites, too.”

Sam’s face did something complicated—and then he nodded. “I—yeah,” he said, finally. “That was the first one I wrote. Never actually expected anyone to read it.”

So there were more of those stories, hidden in library books in other towns? Alice raised an eyebrow.

But actually, it made a certain kind of sense. If your family hunted monsters, and your job was—well, this—then who would you talk to about it? Maybe writing it out like it was just a story was the best you could do.

“Do me a favor,” Sam said, then. “Just—don’t tell Dean about that, okay? He—well, he probably wouldn’t get it.”

Alice gave him a small smile. “Kind of a strange hobby, I guess.” Emboldened, she reached out and patted his arm. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thanks.” He looked genuinely relieved, and Alice figured she probably didn’t want to pry any further. Then he looked at his watch. “And, uh, we’re kind of on a schedule here. Ready to light things up?”

Alice drew in a breath, casting another glance at the field of swaying figures in front of her. “Okay,” she said, steadying herself as best she could. “Okay, let’s go.”

 

\----

 

It felt weird, going back into work the next day like nothing had happened. Or almost like nothing had happened, anyway, because the whole town was still buzzing with speculation about the dead guy—and about who had torched the orchard on the edge of town.

It was dumb, because nobody had any reason to suspect her, but Alice still felt like her face was going to give it away. In the end, she manufactured a headache and left Mei and Shaun in charge out front, heading out into the cool dark of the records room to compose herself.

She frowned at the realization the window was open. She didn’t remember leaving it like that yesterday—but then maybe she’d been too preoccupied with the whole crazy story to notice. With a mental shrug, she crossed the room and closed it.

The displacement of air ruffled the papers on the desk. The folder of newspaper clippings was still out, and Alice moved mechanically to gather them up. As she opened the folder to replace them, she realized there was something sticking out the top.

She pulled it out, frowning.

It was a note, written on lined notebook paper and folded in half twice.

Alice opened it up. The handwriting was what she noticed first. Familiar, though it was a little more grown up now, a little less neat and careful than it had been the first time she saw it.

It said, _Thank you._

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me? [DW](http://anactoria.dreamwidth.org) | [Tumblr](http://anactorya.tumblr.com)


End file.
